


Parasitoid

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Gore, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s common knowledge, that no one knows how titans reproduce.” Armin’s voice still wavered even as it picked up strength in its challenge. “So why should titan shifters be considered otherwise?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parasitoid

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ARMIN!!11!
> 
> If anyone can offer any concrit, I'd be very glad. Thanks for reading!

Eren only noticed it as early as he did because Armin’s stomach was usually so very flat.

In the dark of his room, summer air muggy despite the open window, he lay with his head on Armin’s bare chest and enjoyed the soft up and down motion. The two of them had curled close together, sticky and sated, enjoying the lazy moments before the afterglow wore off and overheating drove them to lie apart. Eren had his eyes closed and his hand traced a slow path up Armin’s thigh to lie on his belly, fingertips brushing the short thatch of public hair on the way.

Once on Armin’s stomach it paused, and Eren only realised what was wrong after several long seconds. A slight bulge had formed since whenever he’d last stopped to consider this section of Armin’s small body – not fat, for the faint outlines of his muscle were as clear and firm as they’d ever been. And it couldn’t be muscle either, for it swelled uniformly behind his abdominals. It felt more like Armin had gorged himself on too much food that evening – which hadn’t been the case, Eren knew. Even if they hadn’t shared every meal for the past week at least, Armin had never been the type to eat for any reason other than being hungry.

Still half asleep Eren puzzled over the mystery while his hand sat there, fingers touching against the bump in small, idle strokes. The thought that it might be an illness made him tense unconsciously – inflammation caused swelling, didn’t it? His fingers pressed down into Armin’s flesh and Armin mumbled a noise of irritation. He pushed Eren off and kicked the cover from his legs, unashamed in his nakedness as he lay there on the too hot mattress.

The sight of him stretched out, pale skin and smudges of dark bruises, bony chest and a small, perfect cock between his thin legs – a cock that Eren could still taste in the wet space beneath his tongue – was distraction enough. Without touching it the mysterious bump could not be detected, and besides: Eren loved Armin. He loved all of him, every inch, from the three toes grown crooked after childhood breaks to the scalp that got sunburn down the parting every summer. If this new swelling was a part of Armin then Eren loved it too.

Heart filled up with silly, sleepy teenage romance, Eren smiled into the pillow as he fell asleep. In the morning he’d forgotten about the mystery bump entirely.

Life continued as normal for several weeks afterwards, but only because Eren remained a stubbornly unobservant boy. Had he been more attentive he might have noticed how Armin had started to falter and slow in the endless training they did, out in the fields and woodland of the Scouting Corp headquarters. He might have noticed how the sex happened less, or that when it did it felt somehow short, and tense. How Armin, quieter than usual, started to sleep more and more in the dormitories with the others and not sharing the bed in Eren’s own room, the room he’d been given to recover from titan form in and had yet to be asked to remove himself from (perhaps, Eren considered it, one of the good things of being a very small army in a very large castle).

However Eren was not more attentive, so he continued to miss these things, along with the meaningful glances Mikasa sent his way as Armin got scolded again and again for his slowness holding back the formation. Eren didn’t like it of course, when Armin got singled out for his poor performance, but it had been a common enough occurrence since they’d started training all those years ago that he didn’t feel much more than his usual worry. Worry, with a secret, silent and burning wish that Armin be better than he was. How could they kill all the titans if Armin hadn’t mastered every technique? How could Armin protect himself if he still lacked fluency with the gear, even in training and not out in the heart of battle?

It was during one such training session in the forest Eren did notice that Armin’s position in the formation had become unoccupied. Breaking rank and not caring about the laps he’d be punished with for it he backtracked, the start of panic fluttering in his chest. Rain spattered in his eyes.

He found Armin standing unsteadily on the forest floor, and touched down beside him. Armin’s skin looked pale, more so than usual. His blue eyes were strained, mouth a tight, straight line.

“Are you alright?” Eren asked, as soon as he’d got close enough to be heard. He touched Armin’s arms, his back, trying to look for damage.

“I must have caught some rotting wood,” Armin said distantly. He batted away Eren’s hands. “The trees are so low here, there’s no time to find a new hold if you slip.”

The trees weren’t that low, and if you paid attention to your route it was more than possible to avoid such situations, Eren knew. He didn’t say it, only nodded. “Can you carry on?”

Armin paused before replying. One hand made a short, aborted gesture above his stomach before being pushed away to hang by his side, a tight fist. “Yeah,” he said, then without another word took off. Eren followed.

Back at headquarters Eren accepted his fifty laps without rancour. It was just before he started that he caught sight of Armin talking to Mikasa; Armin was bent, holding himself around the stomach, and his hands clutched the sides of his shirt hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

Eren jogged over, and with a little difficulty ignored Levi’s shouts at him to come back and start running, you little shit. “Armin? You’re hurt.”

Armin looked up at him a second after Mikasa did. His whole face had a pinched look about it. “Not bad. I think I’ll go to the infirmary, though,” he said, and even his voice was strained.

“I’ll take him,” Mikasa said, brows furrowed with a concern that sparked far more worry than anything else had yet. Then she added: “You’d better start running.” She cast a look behind him. Eren turned, and caught sight of his captain’s scowling face.

“I’ll find you when I’m done,” he told them, unnecessarily because they all had known that anyway, and sprinted off before Levi could shout at him that his laps were doubled for slacking. He trusted Mikasa to take care of Armin, perhaps even better than he trusted himself.

Still, eager to get the laps over and done with so he could join back up with the pair, Eren ran too fast to begin with and burnt himself out long before the end. As he stumbled complete at last, shivering in the rain even as heat flowed from his skin like fever, he only scrubbed his face and hair with the cloak Mikasa had left him hanging in the dry under the eaves of the stables before making his way to the infirmary. His legs felt as weak as soggy bread, head like it commanded a body detached and half a mile away, but he made it eventually.

Armin had already left, Eren was promptly told. There’s nothing wrong with him, now go away and stop dripping mud all over the floor.

Eren went away. He cleaned himself up hastily then continued his search, which ended shortly in his own room. Armin was sitting on the bed, back to the wall and feet tucked under the small of Mikasa’s back, where she lay perpendicular to him. Eren flopped down next to her, and Armin squashed him lightly in the stomach with one foot.

“You’re getting your bed damp,” Mikasa pointed out, and Eren made a careless noise in the back of his throat.

“So you’re okay?” he asked, lifting his head up to look at Armin.

Armin hummed noncommittally, not meeting his eye. His foot still rested on Eren’s stomach and he stared at that instead. Eren jostled it as he sat up.

“What?” Eren said, as fear began to creep back into his mind. What if Armin was sick? What if it was something incurable?

“It’s probably stupid,” Armin muttered, and pressed his hands against his lower stomach. Eren blinked as he remembered something.

“That bump,” he said, without thinking. “But it’s only tiny – is it hurting you? They told me you were fine.”

“How do you know about it?” Mikasa asked when Armin didn’t reply. Eren flushed.

“I felt it, ages ago. When – you know. So is that it? But–”

“It’s got bigger,” Armin cut in, still looking down. “And it – it feels wrong. Like someone’s put a stone in my guts or something, and it shifts whenever I move. I’m getting worse and worse at fighting and I know it’s something to do with it.”

Eren didn’t know what to say, so he got up and clambered over Mikasa to Armin, reaching for his shirt to tug up. Armin pushed him away. “Stop it,” he said, something in the tone of his voice that made Eren obey instantly. He looked instead, and yes, how had he not noticed before? Armin’s belly, from behind his shirt and jacket, had definitely got bigger.

“They said at the infirmary it’d be fine, and everything about me getting slower was just my imagination,” Armin said, the note of doubt heavy in his voice.

Mikasa snorted. “They’re just there to stitch people back up again,” she said. “They wouldn’t know disease if you gave them a plague victim.”

Eren tried to think back to the patients his dad had looked after. None of them had ever shown any symptoms like this.

“It’s not like we can find anyone else, all the way out here,” Armin said. “And if no one is prepared to say I’m ill then I can’t exactly leave.”

“This is stupid,” Eren said. He could feel frustration start to worm its way up, making his bones ache for action. Mikasa hummed her agreement.

“I guess it’s not so bad. It doesn’t hurt. Maybe it’ll go away on it’s own.” Armin didn’t sound convinced – none of them were, but Eren wanted to believe him enough that he didn’t argue.

That night, after Eren had watched every tiny motion of Armin picking over his food, the two of them returned to his room. They lay down in the bed together, Armin wrapped up in Eren’s arms, tucked under the covers as the rain hissed outside. Armin held his body stiff, tense, shifting tiny amounts that were as distracting as kicks. When Eren tried to smooth away the rigidity with kisses and warm hands between the thighs Armin only pushed him away. “Stop that,” he said, tucking himself under Eren’s chin, holding Eren’s hands tight in his own, placed deliberately over his chest. It was too hot but neither of them moved.

Like that, they fell asleep.

The weeks continued to pass, this time in a haze of constant worry. Armin continued to perform worse and worse at any physical training that got thrown at them. His distorted belly, measured in careful hands pressed over it late at night, did not go away. Instead it grew and grew.

The doctors in the infirmary finally agreed on its abnormality, but otherwise did nothing.

“A growth,” one said to the others as Armin lay on the bed, uncomfortably naked, and Eren stood beside him in angry, unsatisfied silence.

“Well that much is obvious,” another said.

“It needs to be removed.”

“How? At this size it must be attached to a major organ. Cutting it away would very likely cause fatal damage, not to mention uncontrolled bleeding.”

“Cauterisation?”

“The shock might be just as dangerous, and there’s still the organ damage to consider.”

“True, true.”

“At any rate any surgery we perform will have to be through the abdomen. A full recovery of strength and range of movement is out of the question.”

“Oh, yes, definitely.”

Nodding their agreement they filed out of the room. Neither Eren nor Armin spoke, and eventually Armin got up to dress. Eren stopped him, and kissed him hard and desperate. They pressed themselves together, clinging with fingers and hands and legs. They lay down and still didn’t let go, like vines entwined on a wall. Eren thought he might be standing on the edge of a mountain cliff, in the night, with the stone turning to gravel under his feet.

The next morning Eren had to get up for training. Armin had been excused, given leave until he returned to heath – or until death, the implicit words going unspoken but heard by all.

After Eren broke the news the others in their old training team came to speak to Armin, who had, on silent agreement, taken up residence in his room. Eren avoided them and whatever useless, stupid things they had to say at all costs. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to scream. He wanted something he could fight and kill, something he could beat until it broke in every way and his fists streamed with blood. When he walked into his room and found Jean sitting on the bed next to Armin, quickly scrubbing a sleeve over his eyes, he only realised his voice had risen to a shout when Armin’s hands were clutching at his head and Jean’s form had disappeared behind the closing door.

They kissed, deep, tongues clumsy, noses mashing when their faces became misaligned. Eren had the vague feeling that he should have been lectured for shouting at Jean, and the relief that he hadn’t didn’t make up for the disquiet still tight and sore beneath his ribs.

“Eren,” Armin leant up to speak into Eren’s lips. His soft voice had torn. “There’s something I haven’t told anyone. Speaking with Jean made me think about it, but I couldn’t say it. I think I’m going crazy. But I’m so scared, Eren. Please listen.”

“What is it?” Eren asked, even though he didn’t want to know the answer. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat like a fist pounding a deep internal bruise.

“It’s not a growth,” Armin said. Through the cracks he sounded entirely convinced. “It’s – it’s alive. It’s not part of me. I’m pregnant. I can feel it move. I’d thought it was just my imagination, or maybe something growths just do, but it’s not. It’s really alive. Please, you have to believe me. It moves and pushes around my guts and I hate it, Eren, I hate it and it needs to be cut out. I can’t – I can’t stand it.”

Armin started to cry, his face crumpling like wet cloth. “Please,” he begged, and clung on all the harder.

Eren fell speechless. Pregnant? It was alive? Like – like a baby? But. That was impossible. Absurd in the worst sort of way. Except–

“If it’s – babies get born and they’re not fatal,” Eren said in a rush, acutely aware of just how stupid those words together sounded. At the same time a wild, reckless hope sprung up in his chest. Pregnancy wasn’t fatal. He didn’t care about the biological impossibility; stranger stuff must have happened before. Armin would live. That’s all that mattered.

“No!” Armin hit Eren’s shoulder with a fist, but he didn’t have the room to make it strong enough to hurt. His voice bordered on hysteria. “Don’t you see? If it’s a baby it has to be yours – and it’s not normal – I don’t have womb for god’s sake – it’s _not human_. Eren, it’s a titan – there’s a titan inside me and when it gets bigger it’s going to start eating–

“You have to cut it out. Kill it. Please. I don’t care I’ll probably bleed to death, I just need to get it out.”

In the shock that hit him like a bucket of cold water, Eren made a snap decision. He took a step back, breaking out of Armin’s grip. Then he took a hold of Armin’s hand and dragged him out of the room and into the hallway.

“We’ll get help. Hange knows about this sort of thing,” Eren said with more conviction than he felt. Armin’s half-hearted protests died down as he stumbled to catch up and walk side by side.

The guards knew Eren by face and didn’t try to stop him as he marched on to the wing where the squad leaders’ quarters were. Eren almost wished they had, so he could have shouted at them. Let out some of the roiling emotion in his lungs.

They met Moblit in the hallway, who only hesitated for a few seconds when Eren told him it was deadly important, and all about titans. Armin didn’t speak but pressed his side close to Eren’s arm – Eren didn’t miss the softer look Moblit passed him briefly as he did so. So the news had spread, then. Eren supposed abstractedly that any deaths not from battle had to be pretty rare in the Scouting Corp.

They had been told to wait outside Hange’s quarters, and as they did so Eren was struck with a sudden sense of unfairness; he gripped Armin’s hand tighter. Why had this happened? They didn’t deserve it.

And if Armin was right and he had a baby inside of him – a baby _titan_ – this must all be Eren’s fault. It was his baby. He’d put it there. He’d killed Armin.

The realisation struck them swelled like dizziness inside him. He’d done this to Armin. Him. His fault.

“I’m sorry,” he said desperately, before he could stop himself. “Fuck, I’m sorry – if it weren’t for me – it’s all my fault and now you’re dying–“

“Stop,” Armin said, only a little shaky, and tugged on Eren’s arm until they stood face to face. “Stop it. Saying it’s all your fault makes it sound like you raped me – no, shut up. We didn’t know it would happen, we both agreed to everything, so it’s just as much my fault as yours.” Armin’s eyes were alight with frightened determination. He breathed heavily, long and trembling. “Don’t say that again. I won’t die and it’s not your fault.”

Eren opened his mouth to reply, though with what he didn’t know, but was cut off as Hange opened her door violently. “Eren!” she said, voice bright but eyes behind her glasses unreadable. “Armin! Come in, I hear you have something to tell me, and about titans no less.”

Eren went in first, still holding Armin by the hand. He didn’t want to release his grip. Hange’s sitting room looked more like a study – paper, pens and lamps littered the multiple desks. On the one shabby sofa Levi sat, arm thrown over the backrest and legs crossed. He glowered as Eren caught his eye in surprise.

“Ooh, don’t worry about him,” Hange said blithely as she perched on the edge of a desk. “No one invites him anywhere, so when he wants to talk he follows people back to their rooms. Like a bad smell.”

Levi didn’t say anything to that. The only action to prove he’d heard was a deepening of his scowl.

“So,” Hange prompted. “What did you want to say?”

Eren glanced at Armin for a split second, searching the blue eyes, the straw coloured hair, the small, up turned nose. His heart ached, and he blurted out: “Armin’s pregnant.”

Hange burst out laughing. Eren could feel his face reddening and his free hand tightened into a fist at his side. “It’s true!” he protested as the laughing continued.

“Oh, Eren, I’m sorry,” Hange said, when she’d finally descended into small giggles. She cast a look at Armin with his round belly, and her eyes grew a little kinder. _She thinks we’re making shit up to pretend Armin’s not dying_ , Eren thought, and grit his teeth. “You do know how babies are made, right?” she said. “I don’t need to get Levi to give you the talk?”

“Please,” Armin said, stepping forward. “I know it sounds ridiculous but if you just hear us out.” He didn’t seem to want to release Eren’s hand, arm extended behind him so he could reach and still cling on.

“It’s common knowledge, that no one knows how titans reproduce.” Armin’s voice still wavered even as it picked up strength in its challenge. “So why should titan shifters be considered otherwise? It’s no growth, I can feel it move, climb from front to back, up and down. It’s alive. It’s moving now – you can touch it, if you don’t believe me.”

Hange tilted her head and looked at him closely, all traces of laughter gone. “Come here then, shirt open,” she said. Armin let go of Eren’s hand then, fingers trailing reluctantly, as he undid the buttons to his shirt. Eren tensed, itching to get closer, but stayed where he stood as Armin stepped up to Hange. He couldn’t see Hange’s hands, Armin’s back blocking his view, but he stared anyway. He wanted Armin back in his arms. He wanted this whole stupid nightmare to go away. Armin spoke like he’d felt it move multiple times, and far worse than he’d admitted earlier. And Hange would be the first to feel it. Why did that feel like a betrayal, even such a tiny one?

“Oh!” Hange’s eyebrows shot up, her shout startling Eren out of his thoughts. She leant forwards, hooking one arm around the small of Armin’s back to pull him closer, steadying him as she pushed down on his belly with the palm of her free hand. “Oh!” Her face painted a picture of sheer enthusiasm, but Armin’s shoulders were tensed and his arms wrapped around his upper body in a lonely, useless hug.

“Levi! Levi, come feel this! Aaah, it’s kicking!” Hange laughed in delight, and jumping off the desk she wrapped both arms around Armin’s waist, and kneeling down pressed one cheek firmly to the bump. Armin flinched conspicuously.

“I’ll thank you for keeping that thing well away from me,” Levi said from his corner in the room. Eren turned to glance at him – he’d almost forgotten his presence. Levi’s eyes had narrowed in disgust but he was leaning forward all the same, watching Armin’s midriff intently. “That’s disgusting,” he said. Eren felt the sudden urge to tell him to shut up, to go over and punch him, make him avert his eyes. He wanted to forcibly tear Armin from Hange’s grasp.

“We need to get it out,” he said. He felt lost, the path no clearer, and hated it. “Before it does any damage."

Hange ignored him. She leant back, resuming her prodding with one hand. “Hey, Armin,” she said. “You haven’t been stung by any giant bugs in the last few months, have you? There are flies that do this sort of thing, you see. Tiny flies. They lay their eggs in caterpillars, and when the eggs hatch the grubs eat the caterpillar from inside out. The only do it slowly, though, so the caterpillar stays alive until the grubs are ready to turn into little flies themselves.” She looked up to Armin’s face.

“No,” Armin said, eventually, barely a whisper.

“Then I suppose I don’t need to ask who the father is?” Hange waggled her eyebrows as she spoke.

“I’ve never slept with anyone but Eren,” Armin answered, louder this time. He said it without shame or embarrassment.

Hange hummed, then made a small noise of delight. “It’s so feisty!” she said. “Ah! It doesn’t like being poked. You don’t like being poked, do you? No! No you don’t!”

“Stop that,” Eren said. He felt sick. “Stop it!”

Unexpectedly Hange stopped, dropping her hands to release Armin. As soon as he had the freedom to Armin took a wobbly step back, then another. His arms curled around his abdomen protectively and without thinking Eren stepped up to hold him tight to his chest. Armin’s ribs were heaving. His breath whistled in his throat.

“So you agree it’s alive, then,” Eren said. “And you can get people to remove it.”

Hange stared at them. One side of her glasses had smudged up against her cheek, leaving a faint patch on the lens. “It’s not going to be so easy as that, Eren, Armin,” she said, and the sudden gentleness of her tone felt like the last thing Eren wanted to hear.

“Why not?” he said, unconsciously threading his fingers through Armin’s when their hands met.

Hange stood, dusting off her knees. The excitement had gone, switched off as fast as a snuffed candle. “Removing a baby like that is dangerous. I don’t remember the official statistics but around seven or eight out of ten woman die from it. And that’s when you have experienced doctors who know exactly what they’re doing. With this? Who knows how or where it’s attached, or where to cut. Is it just floating around in the body cavity? Did it grow itself a womb? The point is, removing it would probably end up as us slicing you open, having a long root around until we can find and drag out everything that looks weird, then hoping all the loose ends are tied up and there’s nothing left still spilling out into your system. And that’s not account for the shock, the loss of blood, the infection and all that stuff. It’s a death sentence. Last resort.”

“So you mean – you’re just going to leave it?” Eren felt like he’d missed some vital part of the conversation. Like everyone but him had slipped into a dialect he didn’t recognise.

“For now, that seems like the safest option.” Hange’s eyes drifted to Armin. “You haven’t had any pain from it? No fever?” she asked. Armin shook his head slowly. Hange clapped her hands. “Well then! Say, I wonder if it’ll have a belly button?”

Eren stood numbly as Hange laid out plans for Armin to return each day, to be weighed and measured in size. He didn’t let go, and Armin didn’t pull away, except to do up his shirt. Something had gone horribly wrong somewhere along the line, but he couldn’t pin down what. Armin had agreed to what Hange said, and Armin always knew best, didn’t he? Why did it feel like nothing was okay?

How would it even be born? It could hardly come out the way it had gone in, could it?

Finally, after all arrangements had been made, the majority of them going straight over his head, Eren turned and pulled Armin to the door. He couldn’t stand being in the room any longer.

“Oh, you two?” Hange stopped them with a call, and Eren wanted very badly to ignore her, leave anyway. He didn’t, stopping to turn stiltedly. “I’ll speak to Erwin and all of them lot, so unless someone already knows don’t go talking about this to them. Ahh, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if absolutely everyone knew, then it turned out to be a tumour after all?”

“Yes ma’am,” Eren and Armin said together, and as they left Hange’s voice carried out after them.

“Levi, isn’t this brilliant? A baby titan – can you believe it? I’ll have to find information on pregnancy, who’s had babies here? I’ll ask them – wow, titan babies – so amazing! Erwin won’t be happy, though. Levi, you’re pulling an ugly face–”

Back in their room Armin sat down gingerly on the bed. Eren sat down beside him, and neither spoke. The first evening bell rang, and Eren went down to collect dinner for them. No one stopped him as he walked from the mess hall, stony faced, though everyone knew taking food to eat elsewhere was forbidden.

When he returned Armin had curled up on the bed, hands clutching the covers as if they were the only thing stopping him from slipping away. Armin didn’t look up at him, or at the plates in his hands. His jaw was clenched hard.

“Eren,” he said, after they’d finished eating. Eren, from where he sat at Armin’s feet, looked up. Armin hesitated before continuing. His voice was quiet but calm.

“If I get a blade – I’ll ask for one, or just take one from the store rooms. It won’t be hard. I’ll probably try to cut it out myself. Would you stop me, if I do?”

“What?” Eren said, thrown by the soft words. “Why would you–“

Armin cut him off with a shake of his head. He pressed his eyes closed. “Never mind,” he said. Eren didn’t know how to reply.

As the evening passed the sun set and without either lighting the lamps the room grew dark. Eren got up to change, careful to fold and put away his uniform since he knew Armin didn’t like it when he left it on the floor in a pile, and after a while Armin stood as well. He turned as he pulled off his clothes, facing the wall to hide his body.

As they lay under the covers, close but not touching, Eren watched the back of Armin’s head.

What if everything turned out okay? The doctors had said the operation would permanently damage his abdominals, but what if that meant he would recover for everything but the 3DM gear? What if it meant he would stay at the headquarters, safe from titans, where he could put his intellect to use formulating plans and strategy and that sort of thing?

What if the baby turned out to be human, or a titan shifter like him? What if it grew up, like a human, and it was Eren and Armin’s child? They could raise it with Mikasa; it could stay in the headquarters with Armin when Eren needed to go out to fight.

What if? The thoughts swept across his mind like liquid spilling across a table top. What if?

Then Armin made a small noise, a little whine of discomfort, and shifted onto his side, facing away from Eren. The thoughts died, quickly and guiltily, and Eren closed his eyes. No. He didn’t even want a child, even if it were Armin’s. He didn’t want that cutesy family scenario. He just wanted Armin to be happy, for the pain and fear to be gone from his blue eyes.

Eren buried his face into the pillow, careful not to jostle the cover as he moved one arm up to his face. Armin had to survive. He had to. Pressure behind his eyes forced out tears to dampen his eyelashes, and he bit his lip and tried to force them back, wiping them away when that didn’t work. How could he feel so lonely, even now when he lay with Armin on his narrow single bed? He wanted to wrap his arms around Armin, pull him close enough to smell his hair and press dry lips to his bony shoulders. Wanted to kiss him on the lips, feel their tongues press together, the line of his teeth. Wanted to see Armin dishevelled and sweaty from sex, tired and smiling.

This had to be a nightmare, because life couldn’t be so absurd. It couldn’t be. Two months ago he would have laughed in their face if someone had told him that he’d get Armin pregnant. Two months ago, had someone told him that he would slowly, inevitably ruin Armin? He’d have punched their mouth in.

As he drifted off, his last thought was that he’d wake up and everything would be back to normal.

Eren woke, and nothing had returned to normal. Armin, changing in one corner of the room, still had a misshapen form, obvious in silhouette. Eren pretended to be asleep until Armin left, then got up slowly. Anger flickered through him and his fists clenched involuntarily. In training that day he wore himself down to bone deep exhaustion, and didn’t care about the pitying looks he got sent in the process. Mikasa asked what had happened and Eren told her everything, unable to stop as words and sounds fell from his mouth, like water from an overflowing cup.

The days passed, crawling into weeks. Had Armin got thinner, or did he just appear so in comparison to the growing distension in his belly? Had he been crying, or did his eyes just look red in the firelight? Did Armin still love him, even though they didn’t kiss any more? When Armin pushed him away as he tried to envelop him in a hug that they’d both used to melt into, did it mean Armin hated him? For what he’d done?

Eren knew, he’d hate himself too if this had happened to him. Because no matter what Armin said, it was his fault and only his fault. If he’d somehow known. If he hadn’t been made a titan shifter. If he hadn’t fallen in love.

When he trained he didn’t have to think about it. Flying too fast in his 3DM gear allowed the instinct and muscle memory to overwrite the fear. Stress on his body could drown out the stress on his mind.

Hange told him that the pregnancy should end in a little under three months.

“If my data are accurate, it’ll be a December baby! Ahh, if it’s born on the 25th, will you call it Levi Junior? Please? Please?”

Eren’s throat caught, breath too fat to suck in or out, and he couldn’t reply. At his side Armin didn’t say anything either. From behind his undone shirt, Armin’s belly protruded, painting in red stripes where he’d stretched the skin too fast. It couldn’t be ignored. Eren supposed that was the reason why Armin never left his room any more, or why, other than Hange and those she brought to his daily check-ups, he refused to see anyone but Eren and Mikasa.

Two days later Eren startled awake as Armin fell out of the bed they still shared, despite the gradual falling away of all other small signs of being together.

“Armin?” In the dark Eren panicked, groping uselessly first at the hunched form scrabbling on the floor, then at the lamp kept on the bedside table. His fingers refused to cooperate as he struggled with the flint and steel. “Armin, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t look,” Armin begged, a wet gasp, the second before the smell hit Eren: unmistakable shit and piss, heavy in the air. Eren froze, eyes on the char cloth as it burnt, a spreading line of red in the black. On the floor behind him Armin started to sob.

“I’m sorry,” Armin said, thick with misery and shame, “I couldn’t help it, it’s moving and it squashed me, squashes my guts and I’m so sorry, please don’t look, I’ll clean it up now–”

Eren fumbled with the scrap of char cloth, almost run out, and used it to light the lamp. Then swallowing away the revulsion he turned and crouched next to Armin, who ducked his head and used his hands to cover his crotch, but was entirely unable to hide the dark spread of wetness down his legs. The bulge across his abdomen, as large now as his own head, looked grotesque as it filled out the stomach of his shirt while the chest, neck and arms remained as ill fitting as old sheets, children playing in their parents’ clothes. Armin sat straight upright, even as he curled his neck down as far as possible, as if he couldn’t bear to even touch his belly against his thighs.

“It’s all right,” Eren said, even though it wasn’t all right at all. Everything was so far from all right he wanted to cry.

“It’s not, oh god Eren I’m sorry, I know I’m disgusting–“

“No.” Eren’s voice came out firmer than he thought it could. “Don’t be stupid. This happens all the time – I mean, when my dad looked after his patients, sometimes I’d go around to help. And this happens and it’s completely normal. I swear.”

The lies came out easily and Eren didn’t regret them for a second. It wasn’t entirely untrue, since he had seen a grown man shit himself as he’d lain fever ridden in bed – the lie only came in that that had been the only time, and perhaps in the omission that the man had then died shortly after. Which wouldn’t happen to Armin. They would live, and Armin would heal, and maybe – eventually – forgive Eren.

Armin’s frantic breathing had slowed, though, which meant that whatever he’d said had been worth it.

“Right,” Eren continued, and forcing back the disgust rising in his throat he reached for the waist of Armin’s trousers. Armin flinched heavily, but Eren made sure not to touch the swelling, and moving aside Armin’s damp hands he undid the ties. “Can you stand?”

It felt surreal, helping Armin out of his soiled trousers and underwear, careful not to look closely as he rolled it all up. Careful not to think about the moistness dribbling onto his skin through the saturated fabric. Careful to breathe through his mouth, careful not to let his revulsion show, careful not to push the fragile as glass barrier Armin had erected around himself.

As he left Armin to dress, after having wiped himself with a spare shirt that Eren now carried with the rest of the dirty clothing, held in his hands as far away from his body as possible, Eren felt like kicking something. Dropping his disgusting bundle and punching the wall. Punching his fucking father who’d made him into a monster.

Why him? Why Armin? Why hadn’t it happened to people out there who fucking deserved it?

Without a light Eren walked slowly, and had barely begun to rinse out the clothes in the bathroom when Armin arrived, carrying the lamp turned down as low as possible. He stripped, looking into the near distance as if he were entirely alone, and with methodical, efficient hands he scrubbed himself down.

Eren’s own hands paused in their foul job, and as he watched Armin from the corner of his eye he noted distractedly that the bruises from the gear had almost entirely healed, so in the shifting, dim light Armin’s skin looked smooth and undisturbed – the first time, Eren realised, he’d ever seen that. Armin had always carried around scuffs and bruises, from bullies then relentless training, ever since they’d met.

Eren looked down, then up again as the sound of water splashing against the floor caught his attention. He shouldn’t be looking; he felt perverted just for being in the same room. Even though he’d seen Armin naked more times than he could count, both platonically and entirely not, their situation had changed beyond recognition. He didn’t have any rights to Armin’s body, not even to look. Not any more.

Still, he couldn’t tear away his eyes. Armin’s form, distorted even from the back, horrifically so in profile, was wrong in a way Eren couldn’t quite pin down. Armin had definitely lost weight, muscle mass too, but it wasn’t that. Something to do with the bulge, but what? Hair sticking to the soft line of his jaw, skin shining a wet yellow and red in the lamp light, Armin should have looked beautiful.

But the bulge – Eren stared at it, caught by surprise at some movement. There was something definitely wrong with the casting of the light, the way the shadows curled around to echo the shape of it.

“Can you see it?” Armin said, strained, sounding almost uninterested. Eren startled, looking away quickly, suddenly aware again of the reeking, brown stained cloth in his fingertips, covered in soap suds that didn’t seem to be helping at all.

“I,” Eren said, ashamed. “See what?”

Armin walked the couple of metres to stand directly in front of Eren, hands loose by his sides, entirely uncovered. Unprotected. His distorted stomach was at eye level, and like watching an accident, watching someone slip and be grasped by the hand of a titan, Eren couldn’t look away.

The flesh undulated. A section on the top right, no larger than the palm of his hand, lifted two slow inches before deflating. It did it again. Then another patch, this time on the opposite side of the bump, swelled for a long, terrible second. Like individual fingers moving within a mitten, something pushed out from within Armin’s belly.

Eren’s tongue wouldn’t work. The urge to take Armin, to scrape away all the foulness and nightmares that had attached themselves to his skin like ticks, felt enough to drive him mad.

“I think it’s waking up,” Armin said, quiet enough to be a whisper. Droplets of water fell from his fingertips. “Becoming alive. I didn’t want to say anything, in case I’d gone crazy. But it’s doing this more now.”

Eren let out a long, shaky breath. Just looking at it made him feel ill – what did it feel like for that to be inside of him?

“Does it hurt?” he asked, regretting it immediately. He didn’t want to know.

“Sometimes,” Armin said, distantly, disinterested. He shivered with the cold.

By the time they’d cleaned up everything as best as they could, the sky had started to brighten. Eren’s hands, skin wrinkled from the water, did not feel clean, though he’d washed them enough times. He didn’t wipe them on the legs of his trousers, despite the urge to, for fear that Armin would see. Instead he tucked them in the small of his back as he lay back down on the bed, cold and unwelcome. Armin hesitated, standing on the floor by the side of the bed.

Eren blinked at him, scooting up so his back pressed against the wall. Then, feeling embarrassed: “Do you want me to sleep somewhere else?”

Armin shook his head and climbed in under the covers. He still shivered, and when his bare foot accidentally brushed Eren’s, it felt like ice. “I don’t want to ruin your bed,” Armin said, curling onto his side.

“You won’t,” Eren said. In his head he added, _can I hold you, please?_ , but in his throat the words died.

The next day Armin came down with a low grade fever that nonetheless refused to break. Hange started visiting him, instead of the other way around, and though Eren hated her intruding in their room the fear of Armin falling further ill from the cold journeys down the corridors stopped him from saying anything.

Not even training could distract him from the memory of Armin, struggling in mind’s eye, sweat slicked and whining from discomfort or pain in his sleep. Weak hands clutching the bed sheets. Weight he could not afford to lose dropping from his frame to expose rib after rib, the pointed angles of his collar bones, jutting hips and the bony swelling of his elbows, knees and knuckles.

It consumed him, and continued to consume him, bit by bit. Hange only visited when Eren was out training or performing the endless chores and tasks of a soldier, and turned him away when he approached her elsewhere. Armin only told him that he worried too much – told him in a tired, threadbare voice, I’m going to be fine Eren, you just have to trust Hange.

Eren trusted Hange almost as much as he trusted Armin. But fear still crept into the corners of his mind, stealing away his sleep and making talking to the others, even Mikasa, a trial.

Armin would be fine. He’d get rid of the titan and then he could recover properly. But why did he have to be in pain until then?

The morning Erwin announced that the next expedition would be in five days and last perhaps one or two weeks, depending on variables he could not disclose, it felt like the world had grinded to a screeching halt. While others gossiped about the suddenness of this expedition – titans couldn’t care about plans, so who had they been hiding them from? Or what had changed? – Eren sat next to Armin’s sleeping, restless body, wondering with a strange sense of detachment just what would happen if he refused to go. He – his titan form, and fuck, how he hated it now – was undoubtedly necessary to the expedition’s plans. Maybe if he refused they would have to reschedule it. Or, more likely, they would beat him, take Armin away from him, and force him to go anyway.

Eren put his head in his hands. Even if taking two weeks they’d be back a month before the date Hange had originally set for when the titan would be due. But he didn’t know if that date had changed since. He hadn’t asked. Surely it couldn’t keep growing for a whole month and a half more, could it? It didn’t seem physically possible. But no one had said anything to the contrary, either, and who could he trust if not Hange and Armin?

Eren didn’t move, torn by his own thoughts, until Armin woke with a short cry. He writhed as inside him some limb pushed out the meat of his back, inches from his spine, forcing the muscle and skin there to distend. Eren jumped up but didn’t know how to help, and in the end it stopped on its own. Before he fell back asleep Armin smiled weakly up at him, anyway. Eren smiled back, just as fragile.

Who would be there to make sure Armin didn’t get worse? Help him dress? Who would bring him his meals? Would they make sure he ate? Would they be kind, or would they treat him like a chore, a freak? What if they acted disgusted?

The plans for the expedition were released, and on the night before they left, even though Eren knew he should be learning them – because lives could be lost through the smallest, stupidest mistake – he couldn’t bring himself to look away from Armin’s face.

Armin slept, fitful, hair damp with sweat and the cool wet cloth Eren had been using to wipe his skin. His eyes moved behind their lids. His brows furrowed. The bulge over his abdomen rose and fell with every shallow breath. At that moment it was shifted to the right, asymmetric and unnatural.

The sound of knocking, then creaking as the door to the room opened, caused Eren to jolt to standing while Armin moaned and turned his head to the side. Mikasa entered and Eren relaxed, set off guard enough to be almost knocked over with the sweeping hug Mikasa enveloped him in.

She’d visited Armin before, he knew, but almost always when Eren wasn’t there himself. He didn’t mind, though sometimes wished he knew what they talked about. Whether they talked about him, blaming him.

Mikasa had wanted to speak with Armin – that much was obvious in the line of her mouth, the glances she sent him, the way she folded and unfolded her hands on her lap as they sat, side by side, on the edge the bed. She didn’t, and after some time had passed in silence as Armin had slept and not woke, she stood, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and left.

It was dark and Eren couldn’t find the energy to light the lamp in order to continue studying the expedition plans. He knew them well enough. No doubt he wouldn’t have to do anything but follow Levi’s orders, which were always specific enough. As he fell asleep he wondered what Mikasa had wanted to say.

That morning, as he dressed, dawdling in the hope that Armin would wake before he left, Eren felt sick with dread. No one had told him who would be looking after Armin. A horse screamed in the courtyard and Armin woke with a start and uneven pants for breath.

“Eren,” he croaked, voice rough with sleep and illness. “Wait. Wait.”

Eren dropped the buckles of the gear he’d been doing up, letting them fall around his waist in a tangled mess, and went to kneel by the bed. His hands fell on the sheets; Armin winced as he struggled to sit up, and Eren didn’t know if he’d accept help or not. Then Armin was up and the moment over, Eren regretted not even offering.

“When I’m dead,” Armin said, and cut off Eren’s protests with a fervour that turned his words into a babble. “Look after the others. Please don’t be sad. I know I’ve just been a burden to you all this time, and you’re so miserable and I hate it, I’m sorry Eren, I wish this hadn’t happened, but please don’t be sad. It’s not your fault, no one knew, no one knew it’d happen, please–”

Eren took Armin’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Armin tasted like stale sweat and vomit. His lips were rough. Armin let him deepen the kiss, reaching out to hold on to his shoulders. Then he broke away, folding over his swollen, undulating belly as he gasped for air.

The expedition passed in a haze. Eren couldn’t sleep. Every step his horse took, he knew it to be the wrong direction. He could barely remember where they were going, or the purpose of the mission – help defend the wall as repairs were made to Chlorba’s gate, so vital yet at the same time barely conceivable as more important than Armin. When he released his titan form, tearing apart the enemy with his hands and teeth, gone feral, he screamed and screamed and couldn’t remember why.

On the way home, travelling the endless miles all the way around the other side of Wall Rose, only the wrapped bodies of the dead and the pain of the injured stopped him from breaking formation to forge on ahead. Mikasa rode with him, sometimes. She told him that the others were all too afraid of his dour face to come near.

It had been ten days. Anything could have happened in ten days. In a small part of him, he wished desperately that something had gone wrong and they’d had to cut Armin open, and that by the time they arrived Armin would be already recovering. That Eren wouldn’t have to see his pain, his fear. That he’d return and things would be better already.

On the day before they were due to arrive Eren shifted in the formation until he rode next to Levi. Hange was on the other side of the group, far out of earshot.

“Captain,” Eren said, heart rapid. Levi turned to look at him, eyes as if he already knew what Eren was about to say.

“Before we left,” Eren continued. “Armin said – he spoke like he knew he was going to die.” The words tasted wrong and bitter in his mouth. “But Hange, and Armin, before that, insisted he wasn’t in real danger.”

Levi snorted, and cast a long look at Eren. “I only heard what she told you, back when you first found out,” he said, finally. “Bullshit, all of it. Of course it would’ve been safer to cut that thing out from the start.”

Eren stared at him. Sensing something, some tightening of the reins or dip of his heels, his horse tossed its head and pulled forward. Eren hastily stopped it, twisting in his saddle to face Levi. A cold grip spread across his chest, tightening his lungs.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she lied through her teeth, he’s going to die, and apparently you’re the only one stupid enough not to realise. What, did you think it’d squash itself out of his arse? He’d grow himself a cunt? Your boyfriend’s smart, he probably figured it out when Hange told him to keep it.”

“No, but,” Eren said, and couldn’t finish. The sound of blood roared in his ears, pulsing through his head.

“He subscribes to Erwin’s martyr politics, doesn’t he? I guess he thinks it’s cause enough to die for.”

“Armin’s worth more than that!” The words came out a hiss, a swear of fealty. Eren still couldn’t wrap his mind around the words where death and Armin met.

“To you, maybe.” Levi looked sideways at him. “To the whole of humanity?”

Eren’s hands shook. His horse’s ears flickered and it snorted, side-stepping. “Yes,” Eren said, but the tightening of his throat stopped him from saying more. How had he not seen it? How could he have not stopped it?

His horse pulled forward again, and this time Eren didn’t stop it. He kicked it into a gallop instead, not caring about the shouts he heard only distantly behind him. They were following a road – he couldn’t get lost. He needed to find Armin. Needed to save him.

At some point, as he slowed his horse to a walk to save it from breaking its wind, he realised that Mikasa rose beside him. “At this point there’s nothing we can do,” she told him, dully, as if she’d broken direct orders just to tell him he was about to fail.

“When did you realise, then?” Eren said, bitter, tired. “And why the fuck didn’t you stop it?”

“He asked me not to,” Mikasa said, and looked away. Eren laughed, low and ugly, and after a second the sound turned into something new; tears bubbled up, returning each time Eren wiped them away.

They kicked their horses on soon after, thinking they heard the sound of a pursuit, and came into sight of the headquarters as the sun was beginning to set. Eren dismounted and ran straight to his room, unable to care for any of the small rules he continued to break. The thud of his heart made him feel like he could throw up.

His room was empty. Eren stood in the doorway. Had – no – Armin couldn’t have died. He’d be somewhere else. He’d be in the infirmary, recovering from when they’d cut him open.

Mikasa appeared at his side. “He’s in the dungeons,” she said, pulling him by the arm when he didn’t move instantly. Together they ran. Eren’s head had filled up with noise and he couldn’t understand the guards who stood at the top of the dungeon stairs.

“You’re back! Please tell me, who died? Williams, he’s got long hair, do you know if he died?”

“We don’t know,” Mikasa said. “Let us through.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t – you’ll need to get permission from – hey!”

Eren elbowed him aside and ran down the stairs, following the lit torches and slipping on the late autumn damp creeping in from the stonework. Armin. Where was Armin?

His breath rasped in his mouth, tongue dry and too large. He had to find Armin.

It wasn’t the same cell he’d been in, but the sense of sameness struck him anyway. The door hung open and the guard sat at ease under the burning torch. Eren ignored him as he skidded and slipped to Armin’s side, where he lay on the low bed.

“Eren,” Armin breathed. His blue eyes were clouded with fever. He shuddered with pain. “Eren, you’re safe. Is everyone – where’s everyone?”

“They’re okay,” Eren said, and gripped Armin’s hand tight in his own. He didn’t look from Armin’s face – didn’t want to see the distortion of his body. “They’re all okay. And we’re going to get that thing out of you, and it’s all going to be all right.”

Armin whined, closing his eyes. “It hurts,” he whispered. “Since you left, it hurts. So much.”

“Hey, brat,” the guard said. “Get out of there.” Eren ignored him.

“You!” Mikasa’s voice snapped, a snare drum in the narrow corridor. The guard straightened and looked at her in shock. “Direct orders from Squad Leader Hange! Report to the infirmary and bring down a doctor, for emergency cauterisation and sutures! Do it, now!”

The guard dithered, then took off at a run. Mikasa had a torch in one hand and she shoved it at Eren. “Put it somewhere, I need to see.” Her voice had gone harsh and without thinking Eren did as he’d been told. When he turned back Armin’s shirt had been undone and he could see the skin of half his abdomen, spilling up to his chest and down to one thigh, was mottled in a deep purple bruise, like spilt ink. Armin lay on his back, reaching up to touch Mikasa’s hands with trembling fingers. His legs fell limp and lifeless, not moving even to shiver.

Mikasa drew a blade, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “Armin,” she said. “I can cut it out now, or you can wait for whenever Hange allows a doctor to. I don’t know what I’m doing, but right now you’re dying. Maybe I’m too late, but a doctor will almost certainly be. What do you want me to do? After this I won’t be able to help.”

“Get it out,” Armin said without hesitation. “Please.” He grasped at her wrists. Mikasa gently guided his hands back down to the mattress.

“Eren?” Mikasa looked up at him. “Hold his arms and chest down.”

Eren went to Armin, kneeling opposite to Mikasa, who’d put down her blade long enough to undo a strap of her gear. Eren touched Armin’s chest. His hands felt like someone else’s hands. He watched as Mikasa put the leather strap in Armin’s mouth and told him to bite down.

“Hold him!” Mikasa snapped at him, and Eren grasped Armin’s upper arms, leaning down on them. He looked at the moving flesh of his abdomen.

Mikasa sliced across it, a horizontal line above the belly button, nearly from one side of the bulge to the other. Skin and flesh parted, raw meat for a split second before blood started to well up, spilling down in fat rivulets to stain the sheets. Armin cried out, muffled.

The first cut barely ran a centimetre deep. The second made it an inch. The third, unsteady as Armin’s stomach rose and fell in short, desperate pants, sliced on one side but not the other. Blood flowed freely, pouring like water wrung from a soaked cloth. It stank, sticking in the back of Eren's throat.

One more slice and red slicked, purple intestines bulged out of the wound, thin wrinkled tubes, their surface marbled in pale yellow. Mikasa turned the blade and used the very tip to saw open the wound, lengthening it to split Armin open entirely.

Armin’s cried had turned, at some point, into ragged screams, biting into the leather in his mouth. He twisted his body and Eren held on to his wrists, pushing his chest down into the mattress.

Mikasa dropped the blade carelessly, and like dipping a hand into a bucket of washing she slowly pushed into the spilling mess of Armin’s guts. As she did so a foot slipped from their folds, followed by a long leg. It kicked, and Mikasa grabbed it. Using her other hand she trailed down the leg, untangling it from its nest of intestines.

Armin screamed, the leather falling from his lips. Mikasa’s hand, and the titan’s upper body and head, were still within him, slicked dark red with blood that wouldn’t stop pulsing from the cut flesh.

“Pull it out!” Eren didn’t register it for his own voice. “Do it!”

“It’s biting something, I can’t,” Mikasa said, the first tremor in her voice appearing. She let go of the titan’s leg and reached both hands into Armin. The sound of snapping broke over even Armin’s screams.

The titan didn’t look like a baby. It had the body structure of a grown man. Its lower jaw was flopping open, crushed; it had no lips, and its teeth at the back of its jaw were displaced, forming a row higher up than those at the front. It had long pointed ears, and it clung to Armin’s intestines with both hands, even as it was drawn from him, dripping blood and clear tissue fluid.

Mikasa broke the fingers of its hands and tossed it towards the door of the cell, careless as tossing a rag. Eren followed its movement, and only then did he realise that Levi stood watching them, face blank of expression. He looked down at the titan wriggling at his feet and his lip curled in disgust.

“Doctor’ll be here shortly,” he said. Eren looked back at the mess of guts and raw flesh that was Armin’s body. He stared and couldn’t stop staring, not even as Mikasa piled up the guts and pushed them back into place. She tried and failed to push together the two edges of the gaping wound.

Eren couldn’t say how long it took for the doctor to arrive. When they did, amid a small crowd of others, Eren got pushed away to the front of the cell. He turned and vomited as Armin started to scream again.

Mikasa gripped Eren’s arm, tight enough to bruise. Her hand was tacky with blood, her shirt soaked violent red and sticking to her body like a second skin. Blood had splattered onto her face and neck. She trembled, mouth open but no words coming out.

At any moment Eren expected to be forced away, to be put in a cell of his own. It didn’t happen. Time passed and Armin screamed, cauterisation filling the air with the smell of burning meat. The crowd dispersed after what felt like a days, and when Levi picked up an unconscious Armin to carry to a fresh bed, in clean cell, Eren followed and no one objected.

Mikasa and Armin were cleaned, more or less, of blood. They had new clothes. Eren only noticed from a distance, as the three of them lay together on the rickety single bed, Armin in the centre with Eren and Mikasa his brackets. Also from a great distance he heard Levi argue with the guards outside.

“I don’t give a damn,” he said. “When Erwin comes back you can go ask him what he wants. Until then leave the door open.”

“But Captain–”

“Post a guard. Post ten guards, whatever the hell you want. I can assure you, they’re not going to leave.”

The voices died. Eren lay there, uncomfortable with his hip on the hard wooden edge of the bed, feet poking out into the cold air, and buried his face into Armin’s hair. He could hear Mikasa breathe. Between them Armin had finally calmed, lying still as he slept, for the first time since this had began.

It was over. Finally, it was all over.

Armin's shallow breaths and the movement of his chest lulled him. Eren couldn’t stop himself as he fell into a troubled, exhausted sleep. 

When he woke it was to the exact same position. Mikasa had left and the covers were tucked around him, keeping his feet warm. Armin remained in the middle of the bed, lax and still. Closed eyes, the furrow gone, his mouth had opened a small way. He wasn’t breathing.

Eren got up unsteadily. There was a squalling noise, piercing now that he’d noticed it, and he followed it out of the cell and down the dark corridor. Mikasa stood in front of one of the cells, alone and silent as she looked in with a blank face. She didn't acknowledge him as he joined her.

The titan lay on its back on the barren stone, squealing to itself through a healed jaw. It turned to look at Eren as he approached the bars, and its eyes, soft and round, were a summer blue.


End file.
